


Owls Eat Pigeons

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [17]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Actually wing au to the max, Aka lots of bird behavior, Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst too but we're not gonna talk about that, Bet u didn't see that ship coming, Fluff, Lots of feather preening, Loud cooing sounds, M/M, Mutual Preening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 02:50:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13824918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Owl doesn't want to eat the pigeon apparently, and instead listens to his axe.





	Owls Eat Pigeons

**Author's Note:**

> The more aus and pointless drabbles i make the worse i feel
> 
> Also *throws hands up in the air* i like birds? A lot?
> 
> Featuring a Rock Pigeon and a Snowy Owl

_He's cold, you know._

Woodie looked up from his contemplating, blinking away the dancing spots of firelight from his eyes as he focused on Lucy. 

She lay near to the fire, not too close, red ax blade shining in the dark as she leaned against a tree stump. Birchnut, to be exact, one of the many trees Woodie has felled together with old Luce’, and its stump had many, many rings to attest to its age. The seeds he had gathered from it were scattered about them now, children of the original tree all grown into full towering plants, and even with the chill of upcoming winter the smell of autumn's drifting leaves and ripening seed pods was crisp and fresh in the night breeze.

_If he put on some weight, gained a few dozen pounds and filled out, maybe he'd be more fit for this world._

Woodie sighed, raising a hand to scratch his crooked nose, the traces of being broken and realigned and then broken again evident even after so many years, and glanced over at his uninvited guest.

All bundled up in one of Woodie’s beefalo fur cloaks, curled up with his back to the fire, a grass mat the only thing separating him from the cold hardened ground, and yet even from here Woodie could see the man shivering. The faint outlines of his wings were just visible, shaking badly under the blanket, and even just looking at him made Woodie feel a little cold, the soon to be winter chill creeping through his own blanket.

_It's a wonder that he's still alive you know._

“Aye?” Woodie whispered, turning his gaze back to Lucy, his own snow white wings closed up on his back, huge and warming with cold tempered feathers. “Don't think the fellow has much luck when it comes to that Luce.”

 _Perhaps._ Lucy seemed to brighten, glinting in the firelight. _But perhaps he's always by himself, no one to lend a helping hand._

Woodie huffed, looking out into the darkness to avoid her obvious stare, the hint laced in her voice.

“‘e’s fine,” Woodie waved a hand, wings shifting and feathers on his neck and shoulders bristling ever so slightly, “If he's gotten this far, he'll be fine.”

 _Really? You really think that?_ Lucy's voice got a little more accusatory. _He'll get sick you know. Old people can get sick really easily._

“I'm an old people.” Woodie scratched at his chin, through his rugged ginger beard, not quite looking at his red ax. “I know all aboot that sort of stuff.”

_Then you should know that you can get sick too!_

Woodie could practically feel her glaring at him.

_Just look at him! He needs some help Woodie, and I know you don't want to just let it be. Everyone deserves a second chance._

Woodie grumbled under his breath, fidgeting, calloused hands rubbing together fitfully, before finally huffing a breath of defeat and standing up, the cold rushing to meet him as his own cloak flapped open. Lucy hummed in satisfaction as he made his way over to the bundled form of his guest, his own wings clenching tight to his body to fight the cold.

Unmoving, keeping his body heat caught under his blanket, Woodie was rather cozy and warm. But moving around invited the cold in, and with how big he was, how much more healthier he was and more intune with the colder season, he could guess that it was quite terribly cold for his guest to be sleeping in, even under the fur blanket. Looming over the man, watching him shiver and shake in his sleep, Woodie grinded his teeth together in deep thought.

It wasn't that he was against the idea. It was more that the man may not be all for it.

 _No way to know without trying._ Lucy whispered, a clear statement before going back to her soft mumbling, and with that Woodie dropped down into a crouch.

He took the man's shoulder in his hand, lightly shaking him to rouse him, and when he did Woodie had to lean back as a wing swung around and attempted to slap him.

A gurgling growl met him, more of a grunt, half asleep and with his eyes half closed as the man clawed up from his curled sleeping posture and wavered there a moment, looking as if he could be blown over with just a faint breeze.

Woodie hooted quietly, a deep noise that caused the man to flinch ever so slightly, still reeling from having just woken up. Definitely pigeon then; pigeon grunting was something he's heard before, and the slapping was normal as well.

Sort of odd that this man, this one man who had once been a full time demon, actually shared traits with such a simple, dull bird breed. Woodie himself did not particularly like pigeons, but that dislike was spent on birds only. He himself had owl in him, his wings huge and white, black barring speckled in them along with the fluff of down insulation that ruffled around his neck and down his back.

“What? What is it?” Maxwell hissed, scrubbing a hand against his face and attempting to get his eyes back into order, wrinkles deepening as he frowned at everything with a mean squint. “Hounds, is it hounds?”

Woodie sat back on his heels as the once a demon scrubbed vigorously up and down his arms, hunching under the blanket as his every breath expelled a cloud of condensed steam.

“Deerclops then, with how cold it is.” The man looked about, still squinting, the bags under his eyes dark and heavy.

A part of Woodie felt bad that he had woken the man up, but sleeping in the cold didn't help with resting well.

“Naw, nothing's around as of yet.” Woodie eyed the man, watching as he wavered in the cold and still seemed half asleep. Perhaps it would be quicker and easier if he acted now. “Gonna need ya to get up tho.”

Maxwell had gotten the blanket back around him, over his trembling wings as he attempted to stop shivering, and by now Woodie could hear the sound of his teeth chattering.

“What for.” Not much of a question but more of an accusation, growled out as he closed his eyes and curled himself together, long limbs pulled up close.

 _No time like the present!_ Whistled Lucy not so helpfully, gleaming in the firelight, and Woodie huffed out another hooting of noise from deep in his chest, not quite resigned but more of just knowing he needed to be patient.

“Don't need an old hoser like you to get sick this early in the season.” Woodie clapped a hand on the man's shoulder, let it stay there as Maxwell leaned ever so slightly towards him, eyes still closed. “An’ I don't think that old blanket’s going to do.”

With that Woodie stood up, carefully coaxing the older man into standing as well, which took a moment as he didn't seem to take the hint until part way as Woodie tugged him up.

He seemed about ready to try and slap at Woodie again, but reconsidered it as a cold wind blew and instead hunched himself under his blanket, teeth chattering. Woodie took note of how much shorter the fabric was, the man's legs drawn close together and left mostly exposed to the night air.

He didn't quite think that that suit of his was much comfort against the cold, but didn't say anything about it.

It took a moment for Woodie to recognize the way he was holding his wings, one drawn up close and the other pushing up against the blanket at an odd angle.

“Your wing still giving you trouble, eh?”

“Of course not.” The response was sharp, quick, and Maxwell squinted his eyes to glare at Woodie, still drawn thinly together and trying to keep his body heat from escaping even as he trembled and shook. “I have it under control and don't need your help.”

He had enough energy to puff himself up, turn his head away and angling himself to look taller, more superior almost.

Unfortunately the posturing didn't at all work on Woodie. For one, he was much bigger and heavier set than the thin man before him, and for two-

He could very visibly see Maxwell trying to stand on his tip toes.

Pigeons were rather odd birds when it came to the pecking order, weren't they? Woodie couldn't quite remember the rules of social statues, being a loner himself, and he easily brushed the other man's behavior off as meaningless airs.

“Fair enough then.” He shrugged, ignored Maxwell's pointed glance as he realized his action was being ignored. “But like I said before, you're gonna get sick if you stay like that.”

“Like what.” His feathers were all bristled up, looking very irritated before shutting his eyes and shivering rather violently, voice flat as his teeth chattered.

“Being out in the open, obviously.”

Woodie put his hand on the thin man's shoulder, firmly leading him to where Woodie himself had been seated, a log as backing and guard against the slight chill wind, and he could feel Maxwell dragging his feet but after a moment he seemed to give up on fighting, trembling fitfully and stumbling forward, not quite leaning against him but almost.

_Oh, he still might get sick even now._

Lucy was ignored, though Woodie’s face hardened at the thought of having a sick man to haul around. 

It wasn't a terribly bad thing, as he's taken care of the ill before, but it was a considerable inconvenience in the winter. There was also the fact that, with how obviously skinny and unhealthy Maxwell was, Woodie taking note of his boney shoulder and how he seemed to waver and stumble with every step, the old man may not make it through the season if he got sick.

Woodie has been alone for quite awhile, only Lucy for company, and he did fairly well with that. He never did need anybody, and probably never would.

Not to say he didn't welcome those trapped in this place when they stumbled upon him on this particular island. He had many insightful conversations with that old woman, and the scientist set up many devices that Woodie himself didn't fully trust but have helped make living a little easier.

Never got the chance to meet up with the old King of the Board before now though. He's heard a lot, rumors and gossip and word of mouth, but actually seeing the old fellow again, as a mortal man instead of some damn demonic illusion, was a surprise.

It didn't quite surprise him all that much that their chance meeting was caused by hounds, and it was pure luck Woodie arrived when he did since one particularly big beast was preparing to rip the former Kings wing right off. Lots of his meetings with the others usually had an air of danger to them, so it wasn't too shocking to stumble into that.

And popping a disjointed wing back into place wasn't all that hard, though from all his griping and whining and then the rather loud squawk after the bone slotted into place Maxwell seemed to have been in excessive discomfort through the whole experience.

It was exhausting enough to make Woodie decide to settle for the night at one of his break camps, a simple stone pit and chest fitted with sleeping mats and a few other supplies. He's set these up periodically throughout the island, so finding this one was no hassle.

And then Maxwell had promptly fallen asleep without even giving Woodie a “thank you”. 

Wasn't as if Woodie had made sure he'd be able to fly again, or that he saved his life in any way.

But Woodie didn't feel any animosity about it, and held no grudges for something so simple. And it's just been too damn long for him to care anymore about the Throne and this world and why he was stuck here in the first place.

He's got ol’ Lucy and that was all he needed to get by. Woodie saw no reason for him to be bitter.

It was barely a few feet away and Maxwell was practically sagging against him, trembling violently against the cold and seeming more as if he was sleepwalking than actually awake.

By the time Woodie started to try and coax him down, to sit closer to the fire and in a more sheltered spot, the thin man seemed too cold to process anything too quickly. Finally Woodie just used his hands, maneuvered the stubborn and very cold former King about into sitting down, Maxwell pulling his knees to his chest and tugging his blanket tight around him, eyes still tightly shut.

When Woodie finally slid down, his wings and fluff feathers puffed up to help combat the cold, it barely took even a minute for Maxwell to recognize a source of heat when it was right next to him.

Woodie hooted quietly, eyeing the lanky man as he leaned against him, eyes still shut tight, the barest hints of unease on his face even as he curled up even tighter, long limbs pulled together closely.

That blanket didn't look all that warm.

 _It's so cold tonight._ Lucy mumbled to herself nearby, humming a quick ditty before speaking again. _Winter's coming in fast this year. Will it be a lonely one, then?_

Woodie watched the thinner man for a moment, his own core and feathers radiating warmth to heat up his blanket and keep him cozy, before making his decision.

Using both his arm and his wing, Woodie opened up his blanket to spread it around the other man, jostling him for a moment and earning a soft grunt of pigeon sound before the man seemed to realize that warmth was being opened up to him. He got the blanket over Maxwell's boney shoulders, careful over his injured wing, and his own white feathered wing curled close behind, a warming mass to help encourage the acceptance of the gesture.

Maxwell seemed to be too cold to even try to articulate himself, instead leaning in towards the warmth, gloved hands with long knobby fingers reaching out, and with that Maxwell shuffled himself around in a flurry of half asleep activity, grey wings flapping about and brushing against Woodies blanket as he tried to balance himself.

Woodie stayed still, waited patiently as the man wiggled about, eyes still shut tight, face still pulled into a stiff nervous look, practically pulling himself into the lumberjacks lap with his hands curling into Woodies shirt, trying to keep himself up as his wings slowed, one held a little lopsided.

After a moment of stillness Maxwell sighed against him, thin bony chest pushing up against his own barrel chest, his gloved hands still tightly curled into Woodies shirt as his wings relaxed.

“A little better now, eh?”

Maxwell's reaction was a little delayed, probably caused by lack of good sleep, good eating, and good health, but Woodie felt him flinch down at his deep voiced words, grey wings shivering as they drew up against his back. Woodies own were careful not to push or pull too far; he didn't want to disturb the makeshift tiny tent his blanket made around him and Maxwell.

He didn't get an answer, which did set a small thread of worry into the back of his mind, and Maxwell stayed tense and stiff against him, face buried not quite into his shoulder but leaning against, facing away from him. The old man was still shivering, was like a human shaped iced thermal stone laid against his chest.

Besides the fact that said human shaped stone would have to be slightly elongated to correctly fit Maxwells thin form.

After a moment of silence, feeling the violent waves of shuddering from the other man against him, wondering just how thin he truly was and how much he weighed and when was the last time he had even eaten a good meal for God's sake, Woodie made another sudden thought out decision.

His calloused hand spread around and then up Maxwells back, fingers reaching out and brushing against the nape of the man's neck, feeling soft down feathers and normal feathers graze his fingers.

The effect was an instant change, a softening in Maxwells posture as he went limp, wings shuddering in his shivers and relaxing almost fully, feathers puffing up as he turned his head ever so slightly to bury his face into Woodies feathered neck, hands tight claws bundling Woodies shirt.

Like this, he could feel the bundled speed rabbit that was Maxwell's heart, his own deeper and slower, opposites brushing each other by.

Woodie raised an eyebrow, pursing his lips as his hand went through the feathers on Maxwell's neck, feathers that pushed down the collar of his suit and spread over the man's bony shoulders, soft, fragile grey feathers.

Even with his care a few seemed to slip free under his ministrations, catching in his fingers as he brushed them through. He was noticing something, Woodie’s face curling in a hinted confused mess as he felt around, the both of their heartbeats so close together.

“When was the last time you preened, ya lazy hooser?”

It wasn't just that, worry now at the loss of a few feathers with just the brush of his hand, but he wouldn't bring it up so bluntly. For all he knew, pigeons lost their feathers more frequently and more easily, though he highly doubted it.

Having fixed the man's wing has given him some insight, though seeing the lined bars and slight indents in flight feathers of all things didn't help explain much. It was obvious that stress and lack of bodily care have left their mark, but to be so prominent…

And the fragile feel of these feathers as well…

It wasn't giving him a good sign, not at all.

Maxwell mumbled against his shoulder, shuddering in a breath as Woodie combed his fingers through his feathers and then the back of his head.

“Can't quite hear ya.”

The thin man shifted, his wings twitching and then closing up for a moment, growing tense, before heaving out a sigh and relaxing against him, almost as if he was giving up. When he spoke again he was clearer, hands still holding tightly onto Woodies shirt.

“When it's necessary.” He pressed against Woodie, trying to get warmer, closer, legs drawing up as his feathers ruffled under Woodies hand. “I find myself having very little time for it as of late.”

His shivering was tapering off, finally warming up, and Woodie shrugged off the worry for now. Later he could think about the implications of the feather damage; for now, he was accomplishing two things and one was make sure the man would not get sick from the cold.

The second was offering Maxwell a safe, stress free moment.

It's become apparent to Woodie that, over the time he's stayed here and met up with more and more people, people who moved on or died or wandered off, most people in isolation and highly dangerous environments had a few, er, “insecurities”. 

Not quite that, more like they had a few screws loose, but making sure he was a stable, safe looking person, someone who would have their back and not go off unexpectedly and was always predictable, seemed to help ease their minds. Having a hand held out to them helped, and in some cases people just needed to be hugged to help tell them that everything was alright. It eased the stress and burden of surviving, people knowing he'd always be there and he'd always help to the best of his capabilities.

And he would never discriminate such things to anyone in this place. He's heard the horror stories of just about everyone here, and, for a few of them, has lived through them as well.

Maxwell had not been a good Shadow King and Woodie knew that, remembered it even.

But he was not one to tell someone that they deserved to be left in the cold, alone and suffering.

Even if that someone was a stubborn old fart who had a mean sadistic streak to him.

Woodie has tasted death at this mans hands and knew he could easily snap his neck if he wished. In the past, he would have done so, Lucy cheering him on.

But time has passed and he's heard worse stories now, triumphant shouting of hunting down old snakes and torturing the demon whose dragged everyone here for some terrible reason or other.

Woodie wouldn't condemn them for their revenge, but he's done with his own and made his peace. He had no grudge against Maxwell, not anymore.

Woodie brushed his hand against grey wings, careful to not accidentally loosen even more feathers, and adjusted a few as he felt along them. Feathers pushing up the wrong way were flattened back, doing his best with one hand, his other still in his lap. He could feel Maxwell practically melting against him, deep shuddering breaths, weight not even heavy enough to affect his own breathing, and feeling the uptight, usually stiff man relax so fully with just one hand was a weight off his shoulders.

“You should do it more often then. I hadn't realized that was the reason you look such a mess.”

Woodie reached his free hand around as well, to reach Maxwell's other, more crooked wing, and started to comb his fingers through the mussed feathers there as well. He noted the tinge of heat at the base of his wing, skin warm and hot under his calloused fingers, and Woodie sighed at the possibility of the thin man getting an infection there.

The hounds teeth hadn't broken skin, but older wounds could have been holding uncleaned infection and all that stress could have caused his system to be weakened enough to let it crawl in the bone as it was being set. And with the man being as stubborn as he was, not taking care to be slow with his healing wing or treating it gently, then this may turn into something much worse than a simple disjointment.

Maxwell was shivering again, though it probably wasn't from the cold, wings shaking under Woodies gentle fingers. His down feathers were soft, though the longer flight feathers were rougher, stiff and brittle as he carefully adjusted them into their natural folds, and it worried him greatly. Such ill care spelled future disaster, and it was distasteful, how bad a state the mans wings were in.

Wing care told a great deal on who a person was and how they were doing at that moment in time, and Maxwell's were telling a story that Woodie could barely stomach, empathetic pain in his chest as he felt through the hints of damage and distress. Down was shedding right in between his fingers, and he absolutely knew the man wasn't molting, not naturally at any rate.

It was highly distressing, and Woodie sighed as he brushed his hands through fragile feathers and over shivering skin, Maxwell pressed tightly against him, almost desperate, and still breathing in deep, stuttering gasps.

After a moment Maxwell shifted again, his hands finally unclasping from where they had been clawed in Woodies shirt, flattening his palms against Woodies chest and sighing fitfully, almost as if he was just feeling the way Woodies chest rose with every breath.

Then he seemed to reach a decision, Woodie slowing his own administrations as he felt long knobby fingers reach up to his neck, press against the snow white feathers there and travel, slowly, trembling terribly, around and over to the back of his neck.

Woodie rolled his shoulders and let out a breath at the touch, resting his hands into Maxwells feathers as he closed his eyes and felt the thin man turn his head, felt foreign hands touch and comb through his own well kept feathering.

Maxwell shifted himself, pulled himself up and fully into Woodies lap, still chest to chest as he pressed his head against Woodies shoulder, his arms still shaking, still taking slow, stuttering breaths as he felt around, almost hesitant, uncertainty in his very aura as he brushed his fingers through white fluffy down and then up the back of Woodies head, to the curls of his rugged ginger hair.

Woodie started moving his own hands again, carefully fiddling and stroking though grey feathers a little more deliberately, a little more knowingly, breathing slowly at the intimacy of it all.

“You ever mutually preened with someone then, eh?”

Maxwell was slowly getting a little more comfortable, his shaking ebbing, even though he trembled and shuddered everytime Woodies fingers messaged firmly through the feathers and muscle of his wings, and his voice was more open, more vulnerable and shaken sounding than Woodie has ever heard in any of his lifetimes.

“Once, once a long time ago.” Maxwell drew in a breath, huffing warmly against Woodies shoulder, finally giving in and nuzzling against him, skin to skin and feathers to feathers, his wings relaxed fully and breathing calmer than before. “A very, very long time ago.”

He didn't sound as tired as before, but more relaxed, untensed, just a tinge of sadness in the backdrop of his voice.

Woodie let one of his hands travel to Maxwell neck, brush along the feathers there, shifting his fingers about to emulate a softer, more deliberate preening style, and he could feel Maxwell react strongly to the touch, a twitch of him almost stiffening again before finally, fully uncoiling against him, melting in his lap. The man's own hands stopped moving for a moment, a shuddering gasp against his neck as Woodie kept at it, now truly preening his feathers with careful fingers.

When the man next moved it wasn't sudden, but Woodie paused as the man pulled his face away, thin hands tight on his shoulders, not quite face to face but almost cheek to cheek, feeling his deeper breath against him. He opened his yellow eyes, watched as Maxwells own orange rimmed pupils caught his gaze for a long moment.

For a split second, Woodie could practically feel the absolute uncertainty and anxiety oozing off of the man in his lap, another fitfully shuddering through the spine and ruffling of feathers in his fingers, the man's pupils pinning drastically as they seemed to search his face.

And then Maxwell buried his face against his neck again, this time nuzzling and pressing into him firmly, almost desperately, hands gripping and twining into the feathers on the back of Woodies neck, a rumble of sound thrumming strongly against him.

He could feel Maxwell draw in another deep breath, a gurgle of noise as the man cooed against him again and then again, a frantic beat in the sound, in how his trembling hands held onto Woodie, not tight enough to cause discomfort but enough to display the utter emotion that shuddered through him with every breath.

The thrumming vibrations of the sound was a surprise, Woodie taking a moment to soak in the noise, his feathers puffing up as Maxwells hands combed through them, a little fast as the thin man pressed himself against him, another harshly gurgled drawing in of breath before cooing strongly, using every bit of air in his lungs to make the sound.

Woodie didn't know pigeon language well enough for this, but it obviously meant something important to Maxwell, the coos strong in his chest and thrumming against Woodie. 

Maxwells feathers were puffed up even more if that were possible, down soft against Woodies fingers, and he could feel the slight twitching of the man's wings, not enough to throw off the blanket but enough to let a bit of the nights cold in, the cooing loud in his ears as he continued preening the man's feathers once more, just listening.

Woodie couldn't coo like this, the best he could do was make a deep clicking grunt of a sound, but this didn't seem like the time for it so instead he stayed silent, doing his best to get his actions to speak for him, nuzzling against the man's neck and down feathers, feeling Maxwell shudder against him and renew with even stronger, quicker coos. The deep inhales, gasps for breath from the other man was desperate sounding, almost worrisome in a sense, and Woodie tried to stroke a sense of calm into him, mutually preening together as Maxwell hastily combed his fingers against the base of his white wings, through small, soft feathers.

After a few minutes, the hurried cooing shaking and stuttering as he felt Maxwell tiring against him, weight leaned fully chest to chest again as grey wings twitched and shook with exhaustion and whatever other action it meant in pigeon. The desperation of it all, the underlying fear and anxiety that Woodie could practically taste now, was leaving the man in his arms a mess of shivering feathers and spent energy.

After a moment of silence, quiet gasps of the thin chest against him and huffing warm air bathing his neck feathers, Woodie whistled out his own noise, soft and not as piercing as he usually would sound, taking in his own deep breath of cold chilled air.

A soft coo sounded against him, a faint vibration in the man as he relaxed, arms wrapped around Woodies neck and hands cushioned in his feathery down. Woodie slowly combed his hands down the mans back, stroking him slowly and calmly, and that coaxed out another quiet coo of sound.

This time Maxwell didn't sound as desperate, nor as gurgly or hurried, a soft gentle noise that rumbled from the thin man's chest and sounded nicer to the ears.

“You, eh,” Woodie breathed in deeply through his nose, enjoying the hint of birchnut leaves and seeds, the faint smell of pines over yonder blowing in a passing breeze. “You should preen with others more often. Feels nice sometimes, yeah?”

He could feel Maxwell shiver against him, wrapped loosely about him and face nuzzled against his neck, against feathers and his bare skin. Another lulling coo pressed against his chest, slow and drawn out, and he could practically feel the small, shaky smile being pressed against him in answer.

Lucy was quietly humming to herself, not that Woodie could hear her under the soft cooing that rumbled calmingly against him, and she whistled a lilting tune to match. 

Being alone out here, with Woodie and the trees and the sunshine, was good and all, but sometimes it was nice to see her man be comforted in a way she couldn't give, and, she had to admit, it was always a warming feeling to see someone else get a second chance.

Even if they didn't quite deserve it, everyone needs a little attention every now and then.

And, Lucy watching the two holding onto each other under combined fur blankets, a soft cooing of affectionate sound rumbling between them, the two really did need a bit of comfort right about now.

**Author's Note:**

> Also also..........................one of my favorite pairings that has practically nothing for it soooo this was mostly just self indulgent fluff
> 
> (Also also also...im very tired)


End file.
